One Week
by purplecleric
Summary: Seven days can make all the difference...
1. Monday

"_Monday's child is fair of face..."_

The biting wind adds an edge to the soft predawn greyness, its sharp chill cutting through his layers of wool, making Bobby Goren hunch his shoulders in defence. No, not Bobby; today he doesn't feel like a 'Bobby', a name too playful, too child- like for his frame of mind. No, today he feels like 'Robert'; serious, prosaic. But even that doesn't feel right; Robert means 'bright and shining' and he is far from bright and shining this morning...

Small slivers of ice, masquerading as a light flurry of snow, dampen his grey knit cap and speckle the shoulders of his dark coat like flakes of faux dandruff. They irritate his eyes as they get trapped by his lashes, melt into mock tears that run down his cheeks, reddened and raw. He adjusts his scarf, the grey one, of course; he is in no mood for any flashes of colour today.

He trudges on with footsteps more heavy than usual, each step splashing his pants with slush, adding to his misery. As the side street joins the main thoroughfare, he blends in with the crowd of commuters, his bowed head and hunched shoulders reducing his height, reducing him to anonymity. He is barely aware of his surroundings; lack of sleep fogging his brain, adding grit to his eyes.

His weekend had not been restful. A late Saturday night call out that had proved, on closer examination, to be a matter more suited to the local Homicide Squad, followed by a return to a cold bed and nightmares. Sunday had been even colder still as the heating failed in his building, the super unable to arrange any repairs until Monday. The visit to his mother had provided warmth but no respite, as she grew increasingly more distressed by his presence and he had been driven away. A solitary meal eaten in a local restaurant to delay the inevitable return home had eased his hunger but provided no satisfaction.

Shivering despite the sweats he had donned and the extra blankets on his bed, he had spent a restless night. Just like his body, his mind had been unable to settle; he'd been unable to concentrate on his book as his thoughts had strayed into doom laden imaginings and he had felt powerless to prevent the construction of mountains out of molehills. No heating also meant no hot water and he'd been unable to purge the night's dread with a shower.

He clutches his binder more tightly to his chest as if seeking some comfort from its reliable presence and feels the slam of a body into him, shocking him from his malaise. He turns, startled, to see a young boy running away, glancing over his shoulder briefly, before disappearing into the crowd. Instinct, part cop, part city dweller, causes him to check his pockets and he is surprised to find their contents intact, considering the way his day is going...

He resumes his journey, the crowd thickening as they near the Subway entrance. The train is hot and cramped and his nose begins to run, partly due to the change of temperature, partly due to the myriad smells from the crush of humanity around him. He opens his coat, fishing around in his pants pockets trying to locate his handkerchief, his long arms and broad shoulders causing him to bump and nudge his fellow travellers as he searches. But there is no fellowship, only grumbles and moans; the cup of human kindness has run dry as Christmas cheer is a distant memory, the optimism of a New Year has been sapped by the realism that the only thing that has changed is the date and spring seems a very long way off.

He usually amuses himself on the journey by watching the other passengers; their clothing, posture and interactions giving him insight into their internal mindscape. But today his vision is turned inward and the image of the boy who had bumped into him occupies his thoughts. There was something about his face... The memory of the moment the boy had glanced back was flash frozen in his mind.

The boy was beautiful; the innocent androgyny of pre-pubescence, evocative of a Botticelli cherub. The perfection of his features were highlighted rather than marred by the smear of a purple bruise on his left cheek, the scabs around his lips. And the eyes...There was something about the lively brown eyes that stirred smoke- like tendrils of recognition, too intangible for him to grasp.

At least the Squad room was warm, and there was hot coffee. Small consolations in a dull day filled with the dreary procedures of checking all the paperwork was ready for an impending court case. There was no Eames to lighten the load, lighten his mood with a flip comment or a pithy observation; she was at the range taking her Annual Firearms Proficiency Test. He knows he is not popular with the other detectives so when he goes out for lunch, it is alone; his only company the haunting image of a boy.

The afternoon drags on and he increasingly finds himself staring blankly at the statements; his mind chasing elusive shadows of remembrance, trying to pin down exactly why the boy was preoccupying his thoughts. There was the obvious concern for his welfare; bruises and scabs did not speak of good health and an untroubled life but there was something more...

At last the task is complete, and he hands the stack of files over to one of the support staff with a measure of relief. With no other pressing matters to attend to and in no mood to begin any fresh enterprise, he quits early. His journey home is no more inspirational than this morning's, but at least it is in daylight, albeit grey with skies still blank with the threat of more snow. He realises he is searching the streets as he walks, trying to catch another glimpse of the boy and he shakes his head at his folly.

The heating has been repaired and the hot shower finally drives the chill from his bones, but fails to rinse away the lingering melancholy. He stares at his reflection in the mirror trying to decide whether to shave or not, when at last he realises why the boy's eyes had seemed so familiar – they were the same as the eyes staring back at him from the mirror. No, not exactly the same... the boy's eyes were alive with wonder and awe, whereas his...his were dulled with weariness and wretchedness.

His dreams that night were filled with the vision of hope dying in chestnut eyes; flickering flames of life receding to fiery embers before fading to grey ashes as the light is extinguished and he does not rest easy.


	2. Tuesday

_Tuesday's child is full of grace... _

The report of a burglary involving several valuable pieces of art and the murder of the erstwhile owner means that Eames will pick him up on the way to the crime scene, negating the need to repeat yesterday's morning journey. So he stands, waiting for her on the sidewalk, the cold seeping through the soles of his shoes, numbing his toes. The promised snow has failed to appear, the temperature dropping by several degrees, and the harsh air scours his lungs as he inhales, his warm breath forming its own cloud as he exhales. He feels a sudden urge for a cigarette, a habit he had given up years ago and rarely revisited.

It is bitterly cold and the wind has died. The street is empty and dark; it is too late for night time revellers to be returning home and not yet time for the early shift workers to begin their day. This is the Devil's hour, when the spirit is at its weakest, when the walls between life and death are at their thinnest. It is also the time when the worried wakeful lie tossing and turning, when the edges between reality and madness became blurred and the despairing sit waiting in darkened rooms fearing the sun would never rise again...

For a rare brief moment, the city is utterly still and silent and he feels like the only living thing left in the world; alone.

The noise of an engine breaks the illusion, a dog barks and a light flickers on in a nearby window. The city is resurrected and Eames pulls up to the curb in the SUV.

The broker's opulent home is as much a testament to excess as his corpulent corpse. Rich fabrics abound in the bedroom; silks and velvets, all red and purple. The colours of passion and power, the colours of scabs and bruises. With that thought, he feels what little enthusiasm he has for this case die. He gives the body a cursory examination, lets Eames deal with the distraught live-in housekeeper, finding he has no tolerance for tears. Instead he busies himself at the small antique desk by the window, the shuffling of papers masking his indifference. The boy is once again occupying his thoughts, but not his eyes, his beauty.

No, today he is searching the mental image for the imperfections; the matted dirty blonde hair, the general grime and grubbiness, the running nose as well as the scabs and bruise. He realises that he has been so focused on the boy's face that he can't remember his clothing, whether it was clean and warm. Even so, he doubts that the boy slept last night in silk sheeted splendour...

"Bobby!"

Eames' exasperation makes him start, guiltily. He has not read a single one of the documents. Hastily, he shoves them into an evidence bag to read properly later and follows her out. Later, back at MCS, he is still struggling to concentrate, as he is now considering the causes of bruises; from trips and falls to kicks and punches, from schoolyard bullies to abusive parents and the worst case scenarios loom large in his mind, his fear for the boy's safety increasing. Later still, at the morgue, he tries to listen to Rodger's findings but he is distracted by the small body covered by a white sheet on the slab next to their victim's. It is the right size, the right build... it could be the boy...His imagination conjuring fates far worse than what surely lay under the shroud, he can resist looking no longer...

A brief surge of relief, then the niggling doubts. This doesn't mean the boy is safe, he could be battered and bleeding, could be being beaten at this very moment, could be lying cold and dead and undiscovered, could be...

The thoughts swirl round and round in his head all through his journey home, churning nauseatingly with the guilty shame of knowing he has not given the case his full attention, has not carried his weight. Walking back to his apartment, he sees a noisy crowd gathered in the street. Instincts on high alert, a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, his hand resting on the butt of his gun, he moves forward to check out what has captured this impromptu gathering's attention.

Using the advantage of his height, he peers over the spectator's heads and relaxes. A leaking hydrant has turned a stretch of the street into a sheet of ice and a group of local youths are making the most of the makeshift ice rink to goad each other into ever more daring stunts and slides. The crowd is making the most of this free entertainment and is cheering or jeering each effort. He watches as one youngster slides, jumps, spins, lands, slips and ends up on his ass; the whole performance a comedic ballet. The kid scrabbles to his feet and gives a mock bow; accepting the humiliating end with as much grace as he had shown during his stunt.

He finds himself smiling as he is caught up in the moment; a smile that broadens as the lad straightens and looks up with familiar brown eyes...The boy was alive, very alive. He turns away, inordinately happy.

The feeling sustains him as he prepares and eats a simple supper and only begins to fade as he talks to his mom on the phone. She is mumbling and incoherent and eventually the nurse comes on the line and explains that she had been given a mild sedative because she had become distressed again. He feels disappointed, deprived somehow; he had not realised how badly he had wanted to share his happiness with her. A flood of memories ; the numerous times a young Bobby had bounced home full of excitement and joy and eager to share, his mom too delusional or doped to listen, to understand, to care...

His childhood was still on his mind as later he lay in bed, sleep still elusive. Had he ever played in the street, revelled in his strength, his youth, his energy? He remembers doing sports; the experiences tainted by unrealistic hopes and expectations of his father's approval. He remembers, too, gangly elbows and knees seeming to have a mind of their own and the thrill of outwitting or beating an opponent. But he has no memories of just fooling around, playing for the sheer fun of it...

His dreams, when they finally come, are filled with opportunities lost, and longings...


	3. Wednesday

_Wednesday's child is full of woe... _

The drizzle was deceptively fine, fooling him into not taking an umbrella after a cursory glance out of his window, and he arrives at One Police Plaza sodden. His hair is plastered flat, and cold rivulets of water run icy fingers down the back of his neck. His shoes are soaked and his coat feels twice as heavy with the additional weight of water, burdening his tired shoulders further.

He grabs a towel from his kit bag and goes in search of hot coffee. The machine in the Squad room is broken, and he considers raiding the pot in Deakin's office, but one look at the captain's face discourages him of that notion, and with weary resignation he heads off to the floor below to score a caffeine fix.

Eames is at her desk when he returns, looking warm and dry, and the aroma rising from her takeaway cup smells a hell of a lot more enticing than his mug of stewed generic brew. He quashes his feelings of resentment and together they plan the day's work.

The first witness arrives late and is tiresome, irritating and long winded. The interview seems to drag on and on and his customary skill in getting to the heart of a matter seems to be failing him. The visit to the broker's workplace brings them into contact with the deceased's boss, a pompous arrogant man. The wry mockery and subtle jibes that he usually deploys to deflate egos today has a more provocative edge and Eames' pointed comments tell him that it has not gone unnoticed.

The deli mixes up his lunch order (he hates mayonaisse) and for some reason, his wool coat is starting to smell like a wet dog as it dries. He spends his 'lunch break' putting together a photo array for the next witness who then fails to appear. While going over the broker's financial records with Eames, he spills his drink, staining his jacket. Of course, today he had chosen the dove grey suit in the vain hope some lighter colours would lighten his mood,and now he would either have to shed the jacket's comforting armour or be faced with the constant reminder on his sleeve of just how crap this day was...A couple of promising leads surface and they schlep over to the courthouse for a warrant, only to find Carver is not in an obliging mood. His shoes are still damp and his wet sock is rubbing a blister on his left heel.

Deakins is brusque as they review the case; a morning spent wrangling with the Brass has not improved his temper and he is impatient with their lack of progress. Eames' humorous observations are beginning to feel like criticism, someone has 'borrowed' his PDR and failed to return it and the zipper is stuck on his binder...His typical response to mounting frustration is anger, but today tears of self pity prick his eyes. And he still hasn't read those documents from the broker's desk.

His mother is no comfort. She is now heavily sedated, peaceful at last as she sleeps. He stays, anyway, her tiny hand cradled in his much larger ones, needing the contact, yearning for her soothing touch, some kind words, a mother's kiss to make it better.

He calls in at the bookstore on his way home, hoping that some retail therapy will raise his spirits, then goes into his local deli for some Italian comfort food. Pausing to rearrange books, binder and food into a more comfortable configuration, he hears a quiet sob. Peering into the alley by the side of the store, he sees the now familiar figure of the boy, crouching with his face buried in folded arms that are resting on his knees. Now he is caught in a quandary; his urge to gather the boy into his embrace and hold him until the tears have stopped at odds with the knowledge it could be seen as an inappropriate action from a stranger, and wasn't he seeking consolation, too? Inspiration strikes and he heads back into the store.

"Here…"

He holds out the hot chocolate and looks at the upturned face, at snot and tears running clean tracks through the grime. The scabs were healing and the bruise fading, he notes, as he hunkers down beside the boy, mimicking his posture with a larger version of his own.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Nah…" The boy's voice is heavy with sorrow, and laden with the implication that he wouldn't understand. And perhaps he wouldn't, burdened as he was with his own adult woes, the troubles of childhood a distant memory…or were they?

They sit in silence, sipping chocolate in mutual misery: two pairs of brown eyes now identical, both filled with sadness. His pile of purchased comfort lies abandoned beside him as he finally gives into the feelings that have been building all day, his tears making their own tracks down his face.

Stiff, cold and feeling very old and tired, he returns home. The Italian treats seem tasteless, the books no longer exciting. His favourite chair has become hard and lumpy and he longs to immerse himself in warm relaxing water, but his bath is too short for his long legs to stretch out. He makes do with a shower, and can't get the temperature just right, the once soft towels scratch and chafe his body. He considers shaving but the way today has been he's sure it will just result in cuts, razor burn and sore skin so doesn't bother. Thoroughly fed up, he goes to bed.

Even here, there is no relief; his body turning over and over trying to find just the right way to lie, his mind turning over and over with thoughts of the day. He wonders if the boy has any solace at home; a stuffed bear to cuddle or favourite toy to clutch as a talisman of hope, wonders if he has anyone to comfort him, wonders if he even has a home... He wonders too, why he has not tried to find out, why his usual curiousity is not roused, why he has worried about the boy's welfare but has taken no action, why the boy is becoming such a preoccupation...There is no comfort in his musings, either and he reaches over and turns out the light.

He finally goes to sleep hugging his pillow, forlornly wishing it could hug him back.


	4. Thursday

_Thursday's child has far to go..._

Damn! Will this week never end? He reads the notice at the subway station and his heart sinks. There's a problem on the line, please use an alternate method of travel...With a sense of fatalism, he turns and joins the swelling line at the bus stop.

The day hadn't started out too badly, he'd managed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, there had been no nightmares, his shower had been refreshing and he'd even shaved without incident. He'd had time for some coffee and to free the zip on his binder, and even the weather was better, still cold but dry and there was no wind.

But now he was wedged into the seat on the bus, knees rammed against the seat in front, trapped against the window by a woman whose dimensions exceeded his, in width anyway. Her sweet cloying perfume didn't mask the underlying body odour and, worst still, she was talkative. He tries to tune out her chatter and gazes out of the window to see... no, it couldn't be...but it was. The boy, his shadow companion this nightmare week, was walking jauntily along the sidewalk, a small rucksack on his back, no trace of yesterday's tears.

Off to school? Probably, but it was a little early, maybe a school in another district? His mind starts cataloguing all the local schools, assessing their likelihood in relation to the boy's direction of travel. A futile exercise, but it felt good to have his mind in gear again. The bus has stopped in traffic and he watches the boy disappear from view. For some reason, his posture and the backpack brings to mind a soldier going off to war, and with that thought comes the memory of a long and lonely train ride to Fort William to start basic training, of leaving his home and mother for the first time. And then there was that hot, cramped ride in the military supply plane, heading out of the country to his new posting in Germany, and the flight to Korea and... and.. The memories wash over him, bringing with them a sense of nostalgia.

"...and 'lil Lizbet was just stood there in her cute 'lil bows, smiling..."

He knows all the woman's talk of her 'grandbabies' is probably just compensation for not being as involved in their life as she'd have liked to be, her loneliness as redolent as her perfume. He should feel charitable towards her; after all he knows the ache of loneliness, too, but instead he just feels disgruntled at her intrusion into his wistful recollections. At last, the bus arrives and he breaks free, only to be swallowed up by a crush of pedestrians, the looming buildings adding to his sense of claustrophobia and he feels the sudden urge to flee the city, to drive and drive, until there is nothing left but the ocean.

His wish is partly granted as later, with Eames, he heads to Atlantic City chasing a trail of the broker's credit card receipts that eventually leads nowhere. Journeys are still on his mind as they pass over flat grey- green rivers on their way back, evoking memories of golden buildings with dreaming spires, glorious evenings spent on the riverbank at Oxford in the company of a polished brunette with a cut glass voice and a dirty mind. His lips twitch into a smile as he remembers, his mind faraway...

"Hah! The stone face cracks at last!"

Of course, Eames has noticed, she rarely misses a thing, but particularly not the mountain of misery he has been this week. And she has been patient, just a few comments here and there. But now she has him trapped in the SUV on the New Jersey turnpike, unable to escape her inevitable questions. Sure enough...

"So tell me, what's been up with you all week?"

What can he tell her? That he is lost in the maze of mood and memories? That the uphill struggle away from his beginnings and background is just too steep? That he feels he is slipping away as surely as his mother? And there's the thought that he has been shying away from, has been unwilling to consider, that has been lurking in the back of his mind which now finally comes to the fore; the fear the boy is a delusion, a product of a mind that has begun to descend into madness. How can he share with her what he is so reluctant to admit to himself?

He shakes his head against the onslaught of melodramatic musings and gets a firm mental grip on reality.

"Just tired, I guess."

She's looking at him questioningly and he can see the concern in her eyes. Christ, how had he missed it? He's been floundering around all week, feeling lost and alone, fixating on a stranger when he had a friend all along. Suddenly shy, he averts his eyes, turns his head from her gaze and risks a small disclosure;

"And maybe a touch of the blues..."

The gentle squeeze on his arm says more than any sympathetic words and when he finally looks at her, she is concentrating again on driving, the traffic becoming heavier as they approach the city. The walls start closing in on him once more, and instead of going straight home he gives into the urge to drive, taking his car out for a spin around the quieter roads of Long Island, before parking by the beach and gazing at the ocean.

He can still feel her hand on his sleeve, her gesture of care reminding him of other acts of kindness; the old man on the train who had shared war stories and a bag of candy with the nervous new recruit, the CO on the transport plane who had slapped him on the shoulder and smiled with encouragement at the queasy soldier. He regrets not being a little kinder to the woman on the bus.

On the drive back he is not surprised to see a small figure still wearing a backpack, steps no less jaunty than this morning. He wonders how far the boy has travelled, how far he has to go. He knows today he has travelled far in his mind, has spanned the world and the decades, has come a long way...

Opening the door to his apartment, he has an overwhelming sense of coming home.


	5. Friday

_Friday's child is loving and giving..._

He'd overslept. A hasty scramble to get ready, a quick call to the squad room and he sets off at a determined pace, thankful that there was no ice to impede his progress. Rounding the corner, he body slams into another hurrying figure. He is not surprised to see that it is the boy that he had nearly tipped on his ass. Two pairs of brown eyes meet in startled recognition, the boy's eyes casting downward as he fumbles in the back pocket of his jeans.

"Thanks, uh, for the chocolate." The boy's voice is quiet and hesitant, and the proffered book is old and battered. Surprised, he has no time to acknowledge the gift, as the boy hurries away. He watches the small retreating figure for a second then glances down at the paperback. 'Treasure Island – a Classic Tale of Adventure' the dog- eared cover proclaims, with a lurid illustration of fearsome pirates to emphasise the point. Christ, he has not thought about that story in years, not since he was a boy... Feeling strangely moved, he tucks the book carefully in his binder.

The rest of the journey is uneventful, even though he is a little impatient because he is running late. Gifts and gratitude are on his mind as he crosses Police Plaza, making him take a moment to buy Eames her favourite brew from the street vendor. Her smile of pleasure warms him and he settles down to finally read the neglected documents.

The broker's papers are part memoir, part journal and as he follows the trail of the deceased's thoughts, his fingers absent-mindedly toy with the pages of his new book, curling the corners further. Reading of the struggles and hardships the broker had experienced, he begins to understand why he had chosen to surround himself with fine things, and with this insight he finds his interest has rekindled. Reading further, it soon transpires the broker had deeper secrets than his gambling habits; a young male lover who was both a source of joy and a source of shame.

"Lunch?"

He is surprised to discover the morning is over and that he is, indeed, ready for lunch. He sits in the diner with Eames, sharing findings, sharing ideas, sharing food...just sharing and it feels good. Together they plan the afternoon's work and head off to meet the secret lover.

The love nest is a stark contrast to the broker's home; the furniture is still fine but sleek and modern, the apartment minimalistic in style. The young man is mincing in his manner, waspish in tone, his heavy makeup smearing with the evidence of his grief and he presents as a tragic but ridiculous figure. Seeing past the histrionics, aided by the insight provided by the broker's writings, he feels a surge of compassion for this man who'd been unable to publically celebrate his lover in life, and was now condemned to mourn in private. Remembering Eames' touch and his regret over the woman on the bus, he offers a kindness of his own, and is rewarded with the young man's trust and a potential break in the case.

Now there is an additional reason for the housekeeper's distress; jealousy and another secret love. In a flurry of activity a warrant is sought and granted, an arrest made and the housekeeper finally admits that her years of devoted service to the broker were in the hope of eventual marriage, and on discovering the truth about his real love, she had killed him.

Hell of a way to end a hell of a week, he thinks and looks over at Eames, both of them now faced with the inevitable pile of paperwork. He knows she has plans for the weekend as they are not on call and he can see traces of exhaustion around her eyes, mirroring the tiredness he feels. There is time for one more gift;

"Eames, leave the paperwork, I'll come in tomorrow and finish it."

Small kindnesses and their larger impact occupy his mind as he waits for his food to arrive in the trattoria. He gazes out of the window; half expecting, half hoping to see the boy. And sure enough, he is there, on the other side of the street, kneeling to tie the shoe laces of a much younger boy. Damn, they're multiplying! His snort of laughter startles the waitress as she puts down his plate and now he's wondering who this new addition is; a brother, perhaps? He watches as the boy stands and playfully punches his smaller companion, following it up with a clumsy hug, sees the smile of gratitude and the small hand reaching out to grasp the boy's larger one. The boys disappear, hand in hand, down the street.

Inevitably, his thoughts turn to his own brother. Annoying, irksome Frank, who blazed a trail of destruction through life with his weak will and addictions. Generous, kind Frank who had tried to fill the gaps their mother left with his own clumsy attempts at care, putting aside his own fears and worries to look out for his younger brother.

"Hi, Mom." She is awake and lucid, at last. "I've been thinking about Frank..." Her favourite subject, and for once he feels no resentment, is just glad to hear her voice, to share.

No longer on call, he pours himself a drink and settles in his chair, rejecting his current reading material in favour of Treasure Island. The pages are yellowed and smell of must, stale cigarettes and of all the other readers who have embarked on this journey. With anticipation, he turns to the first chapter and begins to read...

This is not the book he remembers, his bitterness souring the smooth taste of the Glenlivet. Where is the excitement, the thrill, the adventure? He tries to think back to the first time he'd joined Jim Hawkins on his voyages on the high seas, on his quest for buried treasure. At the library? Alone, at night, reading by flashlight under the covers? No, he remembers now. It was curled up in his mother's lap, each reading in turn a page out loud, delighting in the pirate lingo and the vivid characters. And in remembering, he sees the source of his disappointment. He has been reading as an adult; critiquing the style, analysing the themes, questioning the historical accuracies instead of surrendering to the story.

Illuminated by just his reading lamp and transported back to his mother's lap; as a manchild, he turns again to the first page and, at last, the adventure begins...


	6. Saturday

_Saturday's child works hard for a living..._

He woke feeling refreshed and filled with energy, with the urge to get things done. A surprise, really, as he had read and read into the small hours, not wanting to leave the adventure unfinished, not wanting to leave the comfort of the memory of his mother's lap. The clouds had gathered overnight, filling the skies with a thick and heavy threat of more inclement weather, but no such clouds gathered in his mind.

He tackles the neglected chores with enthusiasm; more memories playing like a mental soundtrack to his activities. He changes the bed linen, shaking out the restlessness and nightmares from the covers, neatly tucking in the sheet corners_, military style, just like boot camp, the action repeated again and again until perfected, the drill sergeant ever vigilant, the occasional word of praise a cherished reward as such words had been rare from his father._ He washes the dishes and stacks them neatly in the drainer _as his mother had shown him, when he had been so small he had needed a stool to reach the sink, when she had been predictable in her love and affection._ He loads the dirty laundry in the washer _ folding sheets with Grandma, the strange dance of back and forth, corner to corner, the air fresh with the scent of breeze- dried linen._ A rare memory of a woman he had barely known.

He opens and sorts the mail, paying bills and balancing his check book,_ the patient teacher who had shown him how to corral his mind into some order, to sort and plan, and had helped him to make his left- handed scrawl legible._ He straightens the living room, returning discarded books and magazines to their rightful place,_ Frank helping him tidy his room one Saturday so they would make it to the movie matinee in time_. He polishes his shoes_ sitting cross legged at his father's side, a line of the family's shoes in front of them, working as a team to restore gloss and shine to worn leather. _ And this memory was the rarest; time spent with his father with no disappointment or shame, no criticism or guilt.

Gathering up letters to mail and suits to be cleaned, filled with a sense of satisfaction, he heads out to run the errands. Unsurprisingly, he encounters the boy; the evidence of his own errands in the paper bags of groceries clutched in his arms. For a moment they stand and regard each other; brown eyes assessing. He sees the bruise has faded to a pale smudge of yellow, the scabs now gone leaving faint red shadows and his hair is washed and combed and he wonders what the boy sees...

There is a mutual nod of recognition, a moment of silent acknowledgement, a brief pause in busy day, before he is swallowed up in the hustle and bustle of the crowd and lost in the hectic pace of daily life. Errands complete, grabbing a sandwich to go and mindful of a promise to keep, he heads off towards the subway.

The squad room is quiet, a welcome contrast to the noisy Saturday shoppers thronging the streets, and he is pleased to find his PDR has been returned complete with an anonymous but apologetic note. Hanging up his coat, and relishing the thought of the task ahead, he sets to work. And he does enjoy it; the stack of files making their way slowly but steadily from the right to the left hand side of his desk as the afternoon wears on. Maybe it is because he is making up for his lack of diligence earlier in the week, maybe because he is in the right frame of mind or maybe because he is doing it to help out a friend...

His cell phone rings, breaking his concentration. Thinking of friends...

"Hey, Lewis! What's up?"

"Bobby, my man! How're ya fixed?"

He knows that is Lewis –speak for 'I'm in a jam, can you help?' and does a stock take of the work remaining. Not much, less than an hour or so left. He could put it off until Monday...his conscience wins out.

"Let me, um, finish up here and I'll be there in a couple of hours. Put the beers on ice."

It was a rush job; a sweet deal for Lewis and an even sweeter car. The problem was one of his crew had got hitched today and the rest of the boys were helping him celebrate. It would probably be Wednesday before any of them were sober enough to do anything other than basic car maintenance. Another task to enjoy; maybe because it had been a while since he had tinkered about under a car, maybe because it is such a beautiful vehicle or maybe because he is doing it to help out a friend...

Hands now busy and his mind free, the smells of leather and oil trigger off another string of memories; weekends spent tinkering with engines, the heady freedom of his own set of wheels, reckless drives fuelled by youthful belief in immortality and Lewis, who had never pried, had just accepted his friend's reluctance to invite him home, had accepted his moods and his temper, who had accepted _him._

The keys to his car had unlocked more than freedom and acceptance, it had opened the door to girls: to drive- in movie theatres and lover's lanes, to light perfume and heavy petting, to that first time...

The hours pass quickly; anecdotes, banter and beer and all the times spent together in garages and workshops making light of the work, and soon they are rewarded with the glorious roar of a powerful engine brought back to life. High fives and hugs and, of course, there is time for one more drink and another tall tale...

At last, he sinks into bed, heavy with a satisfying tiredness that has been worked for, has been earned and his sleep is deep and dreamless.


	7. Sunday

_And the child that is born on the Sabbath day..._

He stretches, luxuriating in the movement, in the comfort and warmth of his bed, and watches the motes dance and sparkle in the pale winter sunlight. He feels utterly at ease, with a day of nothing but leisure ahead, full of promise and invitation. But first, coffee...

Savouring the rich aroma and the intense, smooth flavour, he sips from his favourite mug, gazing out of the window at the world, transformed, before him. Yesterday's clouds had delivered on their promise; covering the grime and grittiness of the city with the purity and innocence of fresh snow, before departing, leaving the sky a heavenly shade of blue.

He briefly wishes for a companion to share this morning, this sight, this feeling, but it is a only a dreamy moment of wistful longing, no longer the soul crushing ache of loneliness that had plagued him a mere week, a lifetime, ago.

More coffee, the perfect accompaniment to golden butter melting on hot toast, contrasted by the sharp tang of fresh juice. The Sunday paper is full of more promises; intriguing new books, the latest art exhibitions, a concert of rare works by his favourite composer... And there is the thought-provoking editorial, the interesting articles on topics hitherto unconsidered and the crossword- which today he completes in record time.

Replete in body and mind, he steps out to embrace the cool, fresh morning.

"How's your week been?"

His mother is bright eyed and lively, and he doesn't want to take the edge off her shine with the hellishness of his recent days. Anyway, that was in the past, and she had been to her own personal hell. He sits by her bed and listens as she chides him for not taking good care of himself, for his lack of a wife, for the rapidly disappearing opportunities for blessing her with grandchildren, for not measuring up to his brother... All the annoying, wonderful things mothers say in love and affection, all the more wonderful because it is _his_ mother saying them.

"Love you, Mom."

Lunch with Stephen; the richness of friendship adding to the fine flavours of the food. Light sparkling wine and light sparkling conversation, the playful debate laden with the play on words. There is a sense of frivolity and he is moved to flirt, light heartedly, with the waitress who is witty with her deflection. Sides aching, the tears in his eyes are not from sorrow, but laughter.

So where next? He is reluctant to return home, feeling the need for people around him but not especially for company. There are museums and galleries but the day is too beautiful to be indoors and after all the food and sitting about, he feels the urge to move. A walk in the park, then...

He enjoys the crunch of the snow underfoot; his toes snug in the warmth of wool socks. The once bare and empty trees are now decorated with icicles and frost and twinkle in the afternoon sunlight, evoking memories of Christmas and the promise of white blossom petals of spring. The children are playing, rosy cheeked with the excitement, the exercise, the cold air, and of course, he looks to see if the boy is among them. But there is no sight of him, either in the park or as he walks home; alone but no longer lonely.

He has the strange conviction that he will not see the boy again, that he has, somehow, served his purpose. What had he called him? His shadow companion. And he had, indeed, been a constant companion but more than that, a guide. He had led him out of the trap of depression, had helped him negotiate the pitfalls of his painful childhood, had led him to discover the precious buried treasure of the memories of love and kindness, of pleasure and happiness. Even more importantly, he had shown him the bounty in his present life and given him the gift of hope.

Perhaps he had not been real, after all, but he no longer fears he was a hallucination born of a mind teetering on the brink of madness. It was more probable that he had instilled a series of random encounters with his own desperate need, lack of sleep fuelling the delusion.

His mind, still light and playful from the experiences of the day, considers more fantastical ideas; that the boy was an echo of himself from younger days summoned in his darkest hour, or the ghost of his childhood returning to redeem him with the love and comfort he had felt deprived of, or an angel sent by a Higher Power to be his rescuer, his saviour.

He chuckles at his imaginings, his footsteps growing lighter and more eager as he approaches home. It didn't matter who the boy was, he was not real._ What about the book? _The small nagging voice pipes up from the back of his mind, the one that never let a minor detail slip by during an investigation. He pauses on the threshold a moment, considering. The book is real, isn't it? Yes, there it is, well worn and well read, lying on the nightstand where he had placed it, wanting the reminders of a mother's love and the sense of wonder close to hand.

A moment of doubt, a brief flash of fear, before his fingers reach out to feel the embossed cover, to stroke the outlines of adventure. The book is real, so the boy is too? Perplexed, he opens the book, looks at the inside of the cover, previously neglected in his haste to get to the story. There is a hand written inscription, in the careful copperplate so familiar to him:

"Bobby, there will always be pirates and stormy seas, but there will also be treasure. Remember, my son, that life is one long adventure..."

The final gift; a moment of mystery, of magic, of wonderment...

Brushing his teeth, his reflection stares back at him with warm chestnut eyes, the delightful blend of boy and man. His dreams that night are of adventures in the company of family and friends, filled with laughter and love.

_A/N _

_Thanks, as ever, for joining me on another journey. _

_Usual disclaimers: LO:CI is not mine, although I'd love to spend a week with Bobby..._

"_Monday's Child" is a traditional rhyme and "Treasure Island" is by Robert Louis Stevenson._


End file.
